Splendid isolation: the rebel yell of Cork rock
Saturday September 26 2009
If rock music's appeal is global, its roots are always local. Different towns and cities often develop their own distinctive styles and genres.
In the UK, Bristol is known as the home of trip-hop; Liverpool the cradle of Merseybeat; Manchester was re-christened Madchester after the indie/dance crossover explosion; and Wigan will forever be associated with the rise of Northern Soul. Meanwhile, London has a reputation for streetwise fashion-conscious rapscallions -- think of the scraps between the Mods and the Teds.
In the UK, Bristol is known as the home of trip-hop; Liverpool the cradle of Merseybeat; Manchester was re-christened Madchester after the indie/dance crossover explosion; and Wigan will forever be associated with the rise of Northern Soul. Meanwhile, London has a reputation for streetwise fashion-conscious rapscallions -- think of the scraps between the Mods and the Teds.
Stateside, California is intrinsically tied to the sunshine sound of the Beach Boys; Detroit is where the soul of Motown was formed, and later where the innovations in techno took root; Chicago has the urban blues and also minted house music. Memphis, of course, has its place in the sun as the birthplace of rock 'n' roll and Stax soul; and New York is lionised for its post-punk New Wave scene and avant-garde sensibility.
Ireland has its own version of these tribal music wars. It's often said that Van Morrison's Astral Weeks did for Belfast what Joyce's Ulysses did for Dublin, although the contemporary musical face of the Northern capital is more closely associated with punk and hardcore rock (exemplified by Stiff Little Fingers), as well as a thriving rockabilly subculture.
Galway, meanwhile, brings to mind dreadlocked crusties playing didgeridoos in Eyre Square. Limerick, of course, made international stars of The Cranberries, a fact over which I won't linger.
And Dublin was brimful of exciting indie guitar bands in the 1980s, with The Blades, Something Happens, The Stars of Heaven and A House all delivering quality gold-star albums. And anyone remember U2? More recently, the capital spawned the Whelans acoustic singer/songwriter scene, where it seemed all roads led to Glen Hansard.
But what of Cork, like? Journalist Mark McAvoy has taken to chronicling the history of its weird and wired sounds in a book published this month. Cork Rock (Mercier Press) gives a detailed account of the development of rock 'n' roll in Leeside from the duckwalkin' glory of Rory Gallagher (after whom it named a street) through to the idiosyncratic pop of Five Go Down To The Sea?, Stump, Microdisney, The Sultans of Ping, The Frank And Walters and, most recently, Simple Kid.
McAvoy notes how all these artists share a wilful quirkiness, which he suggests is the defining characteristic of Cork's musical honour roll. I would agree that there's has always been a clearly identifiable difference between the type of bands that the southern capital has produced and those who sprang from the Fair City.
From Bono and Cactus World News to Hothouse Flowers and The Frames, a certain po-faced earnestness has characterised much of the musical stirrings Liffeyside. Anyone who read George Byrne's hilarious In Dublin column the Worst Dublin Bands in the World . . . Ever! in the 1990s will know exactly whereof I speak.
This has never been the case with the Corkonian of the species, who always displayed more of a sense of devilment, of prankish good humour -- of fun. The dolorous Dubs wanted to conquer the world; the langers down south just wanted to know who nicked their mangy geansai . . .
Sean O'Hagan, guitarist with Microdisney and later the High Llamas gives an insightful explanation in the book of the singular appeal of the People's Republic. As an outsider looking in -- he grew up in Bedfordshire in England and only moved to Cork when he was a teenager -- O'Hagan has a clear view of what the makes the place tick. "Coming from suburban England, Cork was bizarre. Cork back then was much stranger than it is now. It has a whole sense of its own. It was very isolated and surreal, full of character and strangeness. It wasn't plugged into the world in those days. That's why all those good musical things happened, because it wasn't plugged in.
"You actually did meet people from different backgrounds even though it was small and a provincial city. It operated on loads of different levels. There seemed to be quite a lot of fairly open and lateral thinking."
Of course, the native with whom O'Hagan did the most lateral -- and creative -- thinking was Cathal Coughlan, who is arguably the city's greatest musical export (Donegal-born Rory Gallagher's musical education was formed in Derry). From Microdisney's The Clock Comes Down The Stairs to the Fatima Mansions' Viva Dead Ponies, Coughlan has recorded some of the most exciting rock albums ever made -- Ireland or beyond.
In the book, Coughlan pays tribute to the formative influence of the late Finbarr Donnelly, the leader of Nun Attax and Five Go Down To The Sea?, whose spiky rebellious spirit on stage spurred him on to become a frontman himself.
Thinking about the wealth of left-field talent that came out of Cork in these years -- which McAvoy's book lovingly details -- it's noticeable how the onset of globalisation has robbed the city of some of its distinct cultural character.
With every Irish town and city now plugged in to the worldwide web and 24-hour satellite TV, the continuing Coca Cola-nisation of the planet threatens to expunge the exoticism of the wild-eyed local heroes and leave one-size-fits-all homogenous conformity in its wake. But reading Cork Rocks reminds you that it was great while it lasted.
Cork Rock is published by Mercier Press nkelly@independent.ie
